


Proper Red Stuff

by keylector



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, Alternate Universe - Steampunk, Alternate Universe - Victorian, Blood and Violence, Character Death, Drama, Drug Use, Established CanUkr, Jack the Ripper Murders, M/M, Minor GerAme, Murder Mystery, Prostitution, Serial Killers, Slow Burn, alternative history, but like if you know about the jack the ripper murders, cannibalism mention, more tags to be added later probably, there will be warnings in the notes at the beginning of chapters, you have a good idea
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-26
Updated: 2019-11-20
Packaged: 2021-01-03 15:31:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,800
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21181781
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/keylector/pseuds/keylector
Summary: Francis Bonnefoy moved his private investigation practice from Paris to London, and like the rest of the city, found himself entranced by Whitechapel's career murderer. The murderer was first called Leather Apron by the reporters and later Jack the Ripper by the killer himself - or so the letters wished for the police and media to believe. But when Francis ends up receiving a letter himself, he's forced to believe that these letters truly are from the murderer.And that the wrong man was hanged.With his identity and home known by the Ripper, Francis feels pressed to discover the killer's identity, before he falls under his knife.He brings out his notes, wondering who the Ripper could be.Alfred Jones, the philandering scientist?Valeriu Ionesco, the Romanian forensic doctor?Yao Wang, the ex-pirate and current opium den owner?Erzsébet Héderváry, the burlesque dancer who kept her past under lock and key?Francis's top suspect is Arthur Kirkland, the spiritualist who claimed to have spoken to one of the victim's ghost, who had given him information only police had previously known. Francis invites him over and hopes to keep him close, see what he knows and what he's hiding.





	1. The Man From Hell

**Author's Note:**

> Timeline and details of the Jack the Ripper case will be changed for this story. I was inspired to write this by Stalking Jack the Ripper by Kerry Maniscalco. The title comes from the Ripper's "Dear Boss" letter.

Blood dripped from the fingers of Francis’s shaking hand. Bile rose, and he tripped and shoved his chair away. He didn’t make it out of the office before his breakfast saw light once more.

His hands pressed against the damask-style wallpaper, arms and legs shaking as Francis tried to continue standing upright.

“He—”

More bile shot up Francis’s throat, and it felt as though a vein in his forehead might burst as he heaved twice more. Tears leaked out of the corners of his eyes, and sick stuck to the loose strands of his long, blond hair.

Francis spat, sucked down air, coughed, and spat again, no longer caring of the state he was leaving his floor.

“Mr. Bonne—” Felicia froze, and her amber eyes went wide as she slapped a hand over her nose and mouth and noticed the sick on the floor. “Jesus, Mary, and Joseph! What the blazes—?” She noticed the haunted look on her boss’s face and the blood that covered his left hand. Her rosy skin turned pale, but her face set into a determined expression as she nodded once. “Come with me, sir. I will draw you a bath.”

Francis didn’t remember being led to his bathroom, disrobing, or the tub being filled with hot water, which would have taken time. While Francis’s work gave him a healthy sum, he couldn’t afford the indoor pipes for automatic water like those with inheritance could.

But it felt like only a moment’s passage between him standing in his office and him sitting in the tub, knees pulled to his chest.

Vaguely, he thought that Felicia would have needed to be the one to undress him and that such a thing was indecent.

_ I shall apologize to her later _ , he thought, but he flinched when the words echoed.

He’d said it aloud, then, and the lack of response told him Felicia was elsewhere.

“She will desire an explanation—”

Eyes suddenly wide, Francis shot up and nearly slipped. He grunted as he caught himself on the tall edge of the tub. Pain bloomed over his middle, letting him know that a bruise would soon be coming.

Part of Francis’s mind remained intact enough for him to grab the silk robe left out for him. He tied the sash around his waist and crashed through the door and down the hall.

“Felicia, don’t look in—!”

Her pallid face rose from the vellum in her trembling hands. Her mouth hung open, and a tear slipped down her cheek as her lips moved around words Francis couldn’t hear.

“I apologize, Felicia,” Francis whispered, swallowing back bile. His throat was sore, and he could still taste his own sick in the back of his throat. “I could not hear what you said.”

Her chin shivered as she drew in a deep breath, but, again, her voice was lost to the stagnating air.

Shaking his head, Francis said, “I still cannot hear you.”

The sound of Felicia’s boots falling onto the floor made Francis look up as she shoved the vellum at his chest. She pressed it to him as more tears slipped down her cheeks, now flushed with anger.

“ _ Is this from that damn Ripper _ ?!” she hissed through clenched teeth, and Francis flinched. “I  _ warned  _ you not to be talking about how it t’wasn’t the right man they put in the noose!”

She hit him in the stomach, and Francis grunted as air rushed out of his lungs.

“I warned you and warned you!” Her voice was high-pitched, and she fell into Francis’s arms, the vellum floating onto the floor. “Now he’s… the real... sending you—”

She slapped a hand over her nose and mouth and stumbled back, face going pale again. She swallowed hard, hand shaking as it lowered from her face.

“I will finish my tasks for the night,” she whispered, refusing to meet Francis’s gaze. “But then I will be leaving in the morning. My sister’s master will agree to take me in as a maid. I do not require a letter.”

“You will have one anyway,” Francis assured her. “And coin for the carriage. I insist.”

Felicia’s sister, Caterina, worked as a governess some distance north of London, and while Felicia saved her earnings well, the cost of travel would eat into what she had. She had a right to be scared for her own safety living here, though, and Francis had a hand in that, refusing to back off investigating the Whitechapel murders.

Felicia nodded once and swallowed again. She held her chin high, but her hands continued to tremble at her sides.

“Your bath water is growing cold,” she said, voice even and gaze flat. “Your supper will be ready when you next emerge. Mr. Kirkland is due to arrive at eight. Be ready by then.”

Francis had forgotten entirely about the conman he had invited to his home, and he frowned but nodded. He dismissed Felicia and watched as she left the room, her hands how clasping the front of her skirt to keep them still.

Drawing in a shaky breath, Francis bent down and grabbed the vellum. The edges were deckled, and the rough surface reminded Francis of the vellum he made using rabbit skin for his watercolor paintings. There was a peculiar smell to it as well, mostly lime. Fading black marks over the vellum marred the letters, and the way the red ink bled and puddled made Francis think the craftsman had gotten impatient and took it off the frame to start writing before the skin was completely dry.

Francis took it to the desk in the back of his office and set it underneath the magnifying glass, which was large and attached to a bendable arm he’d attached to to the wood. There were attachments to raise the magnification, as well as lens of different colors, but Francis hadn’t needed to use those yet and would need to talk to Kiku again about what they were for.

This letter’s writing was even more abhorrent than that of the past two—one sent to Ludwig Bielschmidt, the lead investigator at Scotland Yard, and one to Valeriu Ionesco, a Romania-born medical scientist who got called on by the Yard on occasion to help determine a victim’s estimated cause and time of death.

“Let us see here,” Francis whispered in his native language as he turned on his home’s only electric light.

It was on a multiple-jointed arm like the magnifying glass, and he moved it low with one hand and picked the letter back up with the other. He then stretched out the vellum, leaning down to get his face closer to the magnifying glass. He tried to ignore the smell of sick still stuck with his hair, needing to focus on the letter.

The vellum was too thin in some places. It reminded Francis of his first try making vellum, after moving his practice from Paris to London. He’d rubbed the skin almost all the way through with the pumice stone in a few places, nearly ruining it entirely.

That told Francis that the sender hadn’t gone to a professional. They may not have made it themselves, and if Francis could figure out what kind of skin this was, he could find out who—

The vellum fell over the light, and Francis quickly knocked it off, fearing that the bulb would burn it.

“Those black marks…,” he whispered, voice echoing in his ears. “It’s… a wing.”

The marks were tattoos.

This was human skin.

Francis’s throat burned again, and he swallowed, hand pressing against his lips.

_ From Hell _ , read the first line of the letter.

“Yes,” Francis grunted into his palm. “I believe you.” He turned to look at the open doorway, half-expecting to see someone standing there. “And there’s a very real possibility I have invited the Devil himself into my home.”


	2. Keep the Devil Close

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mention of anti-semitism in second half of the chapter.

The bathwater had been practically ice by the time Francis returned to the bathroom. Mr. Kirkland was also due to arrive soon, so Francis focused on washing his hair and face, keeping the cold water on his skin as little as possible.

He spent the most time on his hair, working the cinnamon-vanilla palm soap Hedvika had made for him. Once he smelled soap instead of bile, he washed it out and went to his table to retrieve the oil for his hair, also made by Hedvika. She hadn’t had money to pay Francis for his services earlier in the year, so he had allowed her to give him the choice of her wares as a trade.

Francis would have done it for free, the sight of the girl broken over her sister’s death having tugged hard at his heartstrings. Hedvika was headstrong and stubborn, however, and hated being in one’s debt, so Francis had taken soaps, oils, toners, and cold creams they both judged equaled Francis’s usual rate.

Once his hair was oiled, Francis pulled it back and tied it off, the ends of his honey-colored hair hanging between his shoulder blades. He then cleaned his face with rose-treated water, followed by toner and cream.

He heard the alarm Kiku had made him sing from his bedroom, alerting him that Mr. Kirkland was due to arrive within the half-hour. The sound of gears turning purred underneath the piano music, and Francis made a mental note to oil the gears later, as he walked briskly into his room to finish getting ready. Felicia had already laid out clothes for him for tonight, and on the mannequin in the corner was an outfit for tomorrow. The sight of it reminded Francis of the housekeeper’s resignation, and his heart grew heavy.

"She should not need to worry about her life living here," Francis murmured to himself as he dressed.

Francis had ended up in precarious situations due to his work, but this Jack fellow was a whole other ordeal, indeed.

That box just down the hall…

Francis shook his head hard, once, trying to rid himself of the image.

He didn't have the medical knowledge necessary to recognize what the object had been, but he knew blood when he saw it.

Even swaying and heaving, he had hoped he was wrong. He had hoped the part had come from an animal.

The letters sent to Beilschmidt and Ionesco were fakes, he had been sure. The handwriting and grammar had been deliberately done to appear low-class, uneducated, and the handwriting differed greatly between the two letters.

But that blood, and the vellum…

Francis needed those two letters, but while Ionesco  _ may _ allow him to view his, Beilschmidt was another matter entirely. The young sergeant was a regular Javert and had no love for the thief-turned-investigator. As far as Beilschmidt could see, once a thief, always a thief.

So if Francis was going to get that letter, he was going to have to get creative.

"Like old times," Francis mused, looking over the intricate work on his pocket watch before tucking it away. 

Maybe the younger Beilschmidt had a point, but it was one he sharpened himself with his refusal to bend.

"But first," Francis said, looking at the clock on his dresser. "An evening with the Devil."

***

“I told Roderich of your delivery,” Felicia informed as Francis walked into the dining room.

Pausing in fixing the collar of his shirt, Francis looked towards the door that led into the kitchen as Felicia finished lighting the candles in the chandelier above the table.

He started for the door when Felicia said, “He won’t be talking to you.” She grunted as she reached to set the final candle into its holder.

She lifted her skirts, and Francis turned away and cleared his throat.

“Oh, you’ve seen much higher than a woman’s ankles, Mr. Bonnefoy,” she teased, and even as Francis’s cheeks heated, he smiled.

Her tone brought him back to before this damned investigation, when she’d tease him endlessly about his spotted past and the not-so-friendly terms he had with the Yard.

Then the moment was broken as Felicia heaved a sigh. “He won't be leaving you, much as he wanted to, at first. Still not safe out there for a Jewish man, especially not after that first Leather Apron story. The man's paranoid, if you ask me, which he never would. He don't even look Jewish. His dad's blue blood is too prominent, looks like.”

Her accent shifted when she rambled. It was hard to tell exactly where she had come from. Felicia never offered to share, so Francis had never asked.

“I will—”

“I wouldn’t bother him,” Felicia warned, setting out the glasses. “Not tonight. He’s busy with dessert now, and you know how he gets.”

Francis sighed. “Fine. I will speak to Roderich in the morning.”

Roderich was temperamental and still held himself and spoke as though he still held the title his father had disowned him of, after the scandal with Roderich's mother and a cellist broke out.

The toff even claimed Roderich couldn't be his blood; his mother must have slept with numerous other men who could be his father. Roderich had started using his mother's maiden name after that to further distance him from his father and to hide from the vultures wanting a story to sell.

He had been working in a bakery for barely enough coin to buy the loaves he baked when Francis found him and offered him a place in his home.

Francis could cook for himself, but he didn't always have the time. He had also enjoyed the company. It wasn't until three years after hiring Roderich that Francis met Felicia, while investigating a stolen ring.

Knocking broke Francis out of reverie, and he straightened his tie as Felicia strode towards the front door.

"Good evening, Mr. Kirkland," Francis sang as he poured brandy into a glass at the table near the kitchen entrance. "A drink?"

"Scotch, if you have it.” Arthur Ignacious Kirkland walked slowly and kept a healthy distance between him and Francis. “Neat." He looked around the room, bright green eyes shining as he took in each detail. “Did you paint that yourself?”

His accent sounded northern. Yorkshire maybe? Trying to sound posh but not quite reaching the lilt for it to sound genuine.

Handing Arthur his drink, Francis nodded once as Felicia finished setting out the silverware. “All of the paintings hanging in my home are my own, yes.”

“Hmm.” Arthur stepped closer to the framed watercolor painting. “Tinted glass?”

“I painted over it with oil paint I thinned until it was translucent,” Francis informed, keeping a step behind Arthur to do his own observation—but subtly. The royal purple tint of the frame’s glass made it more reflective, allowing Arthur to see him.

Arthur’s hair looked like it had been treated with peroxide of hydrogen—his thick eyebrows were brown-red—and it was parted off-center. He kept the clean-shaven look that was coming into fashion with the younger men; Francis didn’t know his exact age but wagered he was in his late twenties. His clothes were blacks and dark greys, and his gold rose-shaped cufflinks gleamed in the candlelight.

Arthur’s shoes looked to have been recently polished, but not all the scuffs could be taken out. The calluses on his left hand’s fingertips showed that he played a string instrument.

“The paper looks quite rough,” Arthur noted. “Does it make the colors blend into each other more? Appears hellish to work with.”

“I prefer it for nature-centered paintings and experimentation with different strokes and blending techniques,” Francis said, turning as Felicia started setting out the food. “I use smooth paper for portraits and paintings that require more detail.”

“Hmm.” Arthur sipped his scotch. “When did you live in Normandy?”

The painting showcased  Chêne-Chapelle , and despite having lived in London for nearly a decade now, Francis’s accent was still distinctly French—northern French for those with a more sensitive ear. It didn’t require investigative skills to find out that Francis had lived somewhere in Normandy.

He wouldn’t let his guard fall, though. He and Arthur had not interacted much beyond Francis paying him to witness one of his mediumship sessions. Francis was sure the conman could dig up more information on him if he didn’t watch his gestures and words.

“As a child,” Francis replied, trying for a smile as he guided Arthur to the table. “The winters were as brutal as they were beautiful. Normandy’s winters are pictured in many of my paintings if you are interested in seeing more of them after supper.”

Francis's past was easy to find out, and there was nothing of it that he felt the need to hide. Most that had managed to rise from a lower class, however, weren't forthcoming about the fact. Let Arthur think Francis to be among them.

"What made you so sure Mr. Fernandez wasn't the career murderer?" Arthur asked as Felicia lay his napkin over his lap.

She flinched at the question, which didn't escape Arthur's notice, though he didn't comment on it.

_ Straight to the point, _ thought Francis. "I had known the man long enough. He was no murderer, unless you count women’s hearts. You, though, had appeared quite sure."

_ Quite _ being an understatement. Arthur had practically put the noose around Antonio's neck himself with his ramblings about Marianne's ghost and what she had seen before she died. Marianne had reportedly never mentioned Antonio's name or used specific identifiers, but Arthur had spun the tale fine enough to convince the public Antonio was guilty.

And when the public demanded justice, the Yard gave a show of it to them, dying their, the people's, and this conman's hands red with innocent blood.

"I was," Arthur admitted finally, after a long draw of the wine set out in front of his plate. He nodded to Felicia to signal there was enough food on his plate. "He fit well with Miss Marianne's description, but so did Mr. 'Jones ' who had appeared to have an alibi at the time of two of the murders, Miss Marianne's included."

"'Appeared.'" But Francis knew what he was thinking, for he had thought the same thing before dismissing it days later.

"His brother," Arthur said, tone implying he thought only himself smart enough to see this possibility. “Even Mr. Leblanc’s wife cannot tell the two apart at times.”

Probably because Mathieu Leblanc’s wife was hooked on opium.

Francis noticed the way Arthur glanced at Felicia again.

He wasn’t sure if working with the Devil was such a good idea, and he wasn’t entirely sure just what sort of motivation Arthur could have in sending him a letter that proved Antonio hadn’t been Jack the Ripper.

But Francis also wanted to keep an eye on him, and if it meant also taking a second look at the other possible suspects, such as Mr. Alfred Jones, then Francis was willing to take the risk.

“Miss Felicia,” said Francis after a bite of mincemeat pie, “see that Roderich has the jelly ready”—Francis tried not to smile at the sudden light in Arthur’s eyes—“and please put together my portfolio for me.”

Knowing she was being kicked out, Felicia’s eyebrows rose, but she gave a curtsy that rang of sarcasm before walking briskly into the kitchen.

Lifting his glass of wine, Francis met Arthur’s gaze. “What sort of plan do you propose?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I changed Canada's human name for backstory reasons, and why he and Alfred have different surnames will be talked about in the next chapter.


	3. Deal with a Little Devil

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Marie/Manon = aph!Belgium  
Kateryna = aph!Ukraine  
Sabine = nyo!Latvia  
Poppy = aph!Wy  
Savitribai = nyo!India

Dr. Alfred Jones, American-born scientist—or so he claimed.

In truth, the visionary’s name was Adélard Leblanc, born in Côte-Saint-Luc, Quebec some hours after his twin brother, Mathieu. Story was Adélard had breathed his first breath when his mother breathed her last. Francis didn’t know how much truth there was to that, only that she’d passed away when the men were young, so he wasn’t interested in repeating the tale.

Adélard and Mathieu had moved to a village near Manchester with their father as children, only to lose him as well and be raised by their aunt in the city. The details of how they were raised wasn’t known to Francis, but he knew that the boys were educated and middle class.

Adélard Leblanc became Alfred Jones when he and his brother moved to London, and Francis guessed the American guise was for using exoticism to make a name for himself. Penny dreadfuls taking place in America’s western frontier were popular, and it was only when Francis recognized some turns of phrase taken from a book taking place in the American frontier he had given to Felicia to teach her how to read.

Up until then, there hadn’t been anything about Alfred that had made Francis think the act warranted a deeper look. His New York accent had been flawless to Francis’s ear, and everything about how he held himself had simply seen very… well, American.

It was neither Alfred nor Mathieu who opened the door when Francis knocked with the head of his cane, however. It was Miss Marie (called Manon by the household), the Leblancs’ housekeeper. She looked younger than she was at first, but a second glance showed he lines at the corners of her green eyes and her wide, ever-smiling mouth.

At the sight of Francis, however, her smile froze as her eyes lost their sparkle.

Ah, so she remembered him. Unsurprising, as she had all but chased Francis out of the house when it became obvious Francis’s questions were trying to push Alfred into a corner.

Whether or not the man was a true scientist was up for debate, especially as Francis had been unable to uncover his academic documents, but Alfred was most definitely no idiot and had caught on to Francis’s game soon as their conversation began.

He was also quite the actor. Other than a slight widening of his eyes, Alfred had shown no surprise at Francis’s show of knowing the man’s birth-given name. He had even switched to his natural Mancunian accent with ease that had made Francis be the one to take a step back. Francis’s suspicion built as Alfred spun his words to make it sound as though he had purposefully led Francis to the right conclusion. He had even invited Francis to his home, making a show of pulling out a sketchbook and charcoal pencil he apparently kept on his person at all times.

Francis hadn’t been able to catch a glimpse of any of Alfred’s artwork, but he used the handwriting on the paper as a comparison to Mr. Ionesco’s letter, back when he’d been allowed to view evidence.

The handwriting hadn’t matched up in the slightest, but Francis hadn’t expected them to. Even faking a handwriting style would leave behind some sort of tell, just like any lie, but other than the top loop of the  _ I _ , there hadn’t been any similarities.

Miss Marie’s voice broke Francis out of his memories: “My master is unavailable.”

No mention of Alfred or Mrs. Kateryna Leblanc. Mrs. Leblanc had fallen into hysterics for a reason Francis hadn’t seen need to dig into some years ago. She started taking opium tablets, most coated in varnish, but in his digging of the family in general, Francis was surprised to find that some of the tablets were coated in silver. He hadn’t thought that the family would have that much money.

“Could you pass along I’ve stopped by?” Francis inquired, putting on his most charming smile.

It didn’t work. If anything, it made Miss Marie’s smile look more like a predator’s snarl than a greeting.

“Of course, Mr. Bonnefoy,” she responded, the chipperness even more chilling than the earlier icy tone. “Is there a message you would like to leave, so Mr. Leblanc may know the speed of which to get back to you?”

Translation: She would let him know, but they would determine that anything Francis wanted was of no importance, so there was no need to be in any hurry of getting back to him.

Still smiling and giving no indication of hearing the underlying message, Francis said, “Please relay to Mr. Leblanc that I would like to discuss the past business he’s conducted with a Mr. Kirkland.” He noticed the sudden spark of interest in Miss Marie’s eyes. She liked spiritualists even less than Francis. “I have some novel information Mr. Leblanc may find helpful.”

“I will let him know,” Miss Marie said after a moment, and Francis believed her.

Tipping his top hat, Francis said, “My thanks. I do hope I may hear from him soon.”

He turned as Miss Marie shut the door behind him without bothering with a goodbye. No matter. Francis was currently lost in thought of how to broach his upcoming visit with Mr. Zwingli. The two were on terms that could be called civil, not friendly, but Francis needed a chance to listen in on conversations between Miss Lili, Mr. Zwingli’s charge, and Sabine Leblanc, her lady companion and Mathieu’s daughter.

Francis knew he would not get any information just from an hour or so of eavesdropping, though, so he first needed to stop by Kiku’s workshop. It would give him more time to come up with a story for his sudden visit, anyhow.

Two streets away from Kiku’s workshop, a child rammed into Francis. The two ended up sprawled on the street, the child tripping over her too-long pant leg when she tried to scurry away.

Coming up from behind the child was a butcher, waving his cleaver around. His face was beet red, and he sputtered and spat, his fury making his words incomprehensible. Francis made out ‘boy’ and ‘thief,’ however.

Grasping his hat with one hand and the girl’s arm with the other, Francis got to his feet and shook his head.

“I thought for sure I gave you precisely the right amount you needed for that cured meat,” he said, loudly.

A weak lie, but at least the butcher’s cleaver had fallen to by his leg now. He’d quieted as well, and the girl just stared up at Francis with wide, hazel eyes behind a long fringe of dusty brown hair.

Turning to the butcher, Francis shrugged before turning to glare at the child for a moment. “And here I thought I was showing heart, opening my home.”

The butcher harrumphed and crossed his arms. “Should know better. Decency’s easy to lose, near-impossible to get back. No honor in that one. ‘E and the others are gon’ be dropping dead soon as winter hits.”

The girl flinched in Francis’s grip, and her eyes went to the street. Francis’s heart went out to her, but he kept his expression iron and gaze on the butcher.

“How much do I owe you?” he asked, and the butcher finally approached, looking calm and gave him the price for the sausage the girl had taken. “Pound extra,” Francis said, handing him the money. “For the trouble caused.”

The butcher harrumphed again and sneered at the girl before leaving.

“How’d you know what I’d taken?” she asked, the gravelly quality of her voice sounding artificial. Her thin lips were a hard line, and she glared up at Francis through her bangs.

“Cured meat doesn’t need cold for storage, so it lasts, and the blocks he has hung in his shop look to be about the size of that lump you’re trying to hold up in your jacket.”

The girl frowned in answer, looking away.

“Am I wasting breath asking if you have somewhere to call home?”

“Near here. One’uv the gangs lets me ‘n my brother stay with ‘em.”

“How old is your brother?”

“Older’n me.” She met his gaze again and narrowed her eyes. “We’re just fine there,  _ thanks _ .”

The  _ thanks _ sounded as crude as any oath she might have used, and Francis finally let go of her arm.

When she didn’t immediately run away, he asked, “Do you mind telling me your name?”

She seemed to search his face, and when she answered, the gravelly tone was gone. “Poppy. But the gangs here know me as Pup. ‘Cuz I follow at my brother’s heels. Or did.”

By her act and dress, Francis was sure they thought ‘Pup’ to be a boy. Her hair was short, and Francis was willing to bet she’d sold it for less than it was worth.

“Ill?” he asked.

Worry overtook Poppy’s expression before she wiped it away and nodded. “Why do you care?”

Francis held out some money, which Poppy stared at with both longing and suspicion.

“There’s a chemist nearby who knows me. Say Francis Bonnefoy sent you and then what illness your brother has. Her”—he smiled at her shocked expression—“name is Mei Xiao, but most know her as James. If there are customers nearby, refer to her by that name.”

Still staring at the money, Poppy demanded, “What d’you want for this?”

“I have people I need to contact around the city,” Francis said, “but there are places I can’t go without being noticed.” He chuckled at Poppy’s snort as she looked him over. “You, however, are someone most ignore, even actively try to ignore. That can be an asset. I’ll just need you to pass along messages for me when necessary, in secret. Sound fair?”

Poppy finally blinked and snatched the money off of Francis’s palm. She stuffed it into her pocket and shook his still-outstretched hand.

“Deal,” she said, pumping Francis’s hand once before running off.

Smiling and dusting his coat and trousers off as he continued walking, Francis hummed and stuck a hand into his inner pocket. He snorted and rolled his eyes, unsurprised. No matter. He’d see Poppy later. He just hoped she hadn’t pawned the watch by then.

Kiku turned off his welding torch and started ranting about how Francis could have gone blind and how he needed to learn to knock or send word ahead that he would be arriving. When he turned around, though, his dark eyes widened. “What in blazes happened to you?”

“Ended up making a deal with a little devil,” Francis replied with a smile as he approached the worktable. Surrounded by tools was a glass sphere with wire inside and coming out of it from two points, where they connected to metal bolts. “Going to make a miniature automaton again? Which name will you be giving this one? May I suggest one?”

Kiku pulled his welding mask all the way off and hung it up. “Yes, no name yet, and no.” He pulled off his gloves and motioned towards the wood stove at the far side of the warehouse with his head. “Tea?”

“Did you get any more from your parents? That was a delicious blend.”

Kiku’s smile was soft, and his gaze turned faraway. “It was, and no, nothing yet. Sending anything more than letters can be expensive for them. I do have some green tea, however, if you would like that.”

“I would. I’ve seen your face drinking black tea.”

“Only when you insist on adding cream and sugar. It’s more than tolerable without it.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.”

“Or remind Felicia, since she seems to be of a mind that not adding sugar to anything is barbaric.”

“Felicia is no longer working for me.”

Kiku froze, Francis taking an extra step before also stopping and turning to face his friend. “What did you do?”

“Why is it you assume  _ I  _ did something?”

Kiku hummed a long tone and filled the kettle. He didn’t say anything as he set it onto the stove and lit a fire using his Döbereiner's lamp.

He still didn’t talk after setting the lamp aside and latching the stove door shut, and Francis sighed.

“I received a letter,” he finally admitted.

Turning to face Francis, Kiku looked confused. “What would Felicia care about a let—” Realization, quickly followed by horror, dawned on his face. “So you were right. It wasn’t him.”

His voice was a whisper, as though someone may be listening. Considering what Francis was hoping to get from him, this was an understandable fear.

“You’ve met Antonio.” Francis’s tone was flat, and he gripped the gold-and-walrus tusk handle of his cane tightly.

“I did not know him as well as you,” Kiku reminded, taking Francis’s cane, hat, and gloves.

He brought them to a nearby rack, and Francis sat at the small table by the stove.

Few had known Antonio well, but those that had were as adamant about his innocence as Francis. Gilbert, or Vicar Beilschmidt, had lost much of his congregation for his assertions, and his home and church had even been investigated when some claimed his passionate outbursts were due to him having a “Greek relationship” with Antonio. The two being unmarried furthered the rumors, and when Gilbert rushed into marriage with Miss Savitribai, some claimed it was just to cover up his “proclivities.”

Francis regretted distancing himself after the accusations, but he couldn’t risk the same accusations disrupting his work. Gilbert said he understood, and he was apparently still in contact with Lovino Vargas, who had left England altogether after Antonio’s execution.

He’d moved to New York, and Francis wouldn’t be surprised if Gilbert ended up following him. Miss Savitribai was using him as a cover as much as he was using her, and a certain “Gentleman Gene” who often travelled to London from Yorkshire would be happy to learn if Miss Savitribai were to suddenly find herself without a ring on her finger.

“I am assuming you’ve decided to visit for a specific device.” Kiku’s statement brought Francis suddenly back to the present situation, and he realized he hadn’t really thought through his loss or how his friendships had been affected.

He dove straight into trying to find the real Jack the Ripper, letting his personal life fall aside.

There was no time to ponder or grieve, however. That package showed him that, and Francis nodded and responded that he needed something that he could leave behind and listen in on Miss Sabine and Miss Lili, in case they said anything about Alfred.

Scratching his head, Kiku sighed and sank into the chair opposite of Francis. “This plan is rather indecent….” He sighed again. “To put it mildly.” He met Francis’s gaze. “What of this spiritualist you have been suspecting.”

“He is still at the top of my list,” Francis responded after a while. “He brought up both Alfred and Mathieu right away at supper last night, however, so I plan to look in this direction and investigate him further at the same time.”

“You invited a man you suspect of being a career murderer into your home for supper,” Kiku deadpanned.

“Friends close,” Francis responded with a shrug.

“Your pride will be your downfall.” Kiku got up as the kettle began to whistle. “But I have a prototype of exactly what you need. I’ll fetch it for you after tea.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gentleman Gene is based off of Gentleman Jack, and Gene is short for Imogen, my preferred name for nyo!England.  
A Döbereiner's lamp is a lighter invented in the 1820's.


End file.
